


Netflix and Chill

by morning_softness



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Author is Asexual, Canon Asexual Character, Coming Out, Discussions of Asexuality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Acephobia, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, M/M, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, mixed with some rejection sensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28152687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morning_softness/pseuds/morning_softness
Summary: Tim casually settles his arm on the back of the couch.  Then he just as casually reaches down to lay it across Jon’s shoulders.Jon freezes, his body going completely stiff.  “I’m not going to have sex with you!”  He blurts out.Tim and Jon watch Netflix and chill.  They do not have sex.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 29
Kudos: 212
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	Netflix and Chill

**Author's Note:**

> CW: food mention, vomit mention (really just a mention, but it’s there), brief discussion of sex

It starts casually enough, after Tim and Jon have been dating for a couple of weeks. It’s Friday and they’re eating lunch in the canteen, arguing about each other’s taste in television, with Tim strongly defending his most recent favorite: a _comedy_ show.

“It’s not slapstick, Jon, it’s _educated_ humor, like Monty Python. There’s so many references to literature and history, even really obscure things. I swear you’d appreciate it. Look,” he continues, in response to Jon’s dismissive scoff, “just give it a chance, okay? Tell you what, if you watch four episodes of it, then I’ll watch that documentary on candle-making you’ve been going on about.”

“It’s the history of soap-making,” Jon corrects hotly. Although the process of candle-making _does_ sound interesting. “You promise?” 

“I promise.” Tim holds up a hand solemnly in front of his chest as if making an oath and declares loudly, “I, Timothy Stoker, do solemnly swear—“

“All right, all right! Keep it down!” Jon hisses, darting a glance around the canteen while Tim laughs in response. “Do you want everyone to know about our business?” Jon knows The Magnus Institute doesn’t have a policy against dating between coworkers—he checked the employee handbook twice to make sure—but the last thing he wants is to have people gossiping about them.

Then Tim is suggesting that Jon come over to his apartment after work that evening so they can have supper together and relax while watching the show on Netflix, or something along those lines, and Jon finds himself agreeing.

It’s not until later, when they’re in the supermarket arguing over the best ingredients for making Fettuccine Alfredo for supper, that Jon thinks again about the actual wording of Tim’s invitation and is suddenly worried that by accepting Tim’s offer he’s accidentally agreed to more than he’d intended.

Jon hates how many things can be code for sex, when on the surface they’re seemingly innocuous. On the other hand, sometimes things _are_ simply innocuous. If he brings it up and Tim tells him to get his mind out of the gutter, or worse, thinks Jon is _offering_... If that happens, Jon thinks he might just shrivel up and die like a salted slug.

They’ve already had the “this is a date, isn’t it?” conversation and the “we are dating, aren’t we?” conversation, which were every bit as awkward to have with Tim as they had been to have with Georgie back in uni. Jon hates the way people act like the difference between a dinner-and-movie date and going out to dinner or catching a show with a friend is immediately and glaringly obvious, when it’s not clear at all, really. As far as Jon can tell, any activity counts as a date as long as the people involved decide it is one, and doesn’t count as long as they don’t. After the ordeal of having to initiate those discussions, Jon’s not eager to have the conversation about sex: namely that he’s vehemently not interested, cannot conceive of any circumstances that would cause him to change his mind, and is sorry if anything he did or said gave the impression that he might be. Like agreeing to come over to Tim’s flat in the evening for a meal and then lounging on the couch watching Netflix. Jon bites his lip to keep from groaning aloud. He should say something, try to clarify what Tim’s expectations are for tonight. 

Except that conversation is going to go one of two ways: either Tim will say he wasn’t expecting sex and wonder why Jon thought he might be, and it will just be one more time Jon’s read too much into the situation and gotten overdramatic, and Tim will realize how emotionally exhausting it is to be in a relationship with Jon and how it’s probably not worth the effort and he could do a lot better, really. Or he’ll say yes, of course he expected they would have sex because that’s what people do when they’re dating, and then when Jon explains he doesn’t, Tim will try to be kind and understanding but it will be one more thing for Tim to have to put up with, on top of everything else he already has to put up with from Jon, like the perfectionism, the info-dumping, and his general awkwardness, and Tim will realize Jon’s not worth it, especially when Jon’s not willing to give any sort of physical compensation. Neither of those is a good option.

Logically, Jon knows Tim probably isn’t going to hate him forever if Jon tells him he’s asexual. Tim’s not that kind of person. Except Jon’s brain is also helpfully supplying him with a long list of all the reasons why, logically, Tim shouldn’t want to be friends with Jon in the first place, let alone date him, and now Jon is spiraling in the middle of the supermarket aisle. Tim is showing him two different brands of cheese and asking which one he’d prefer to use for the Alfredo sauce, and Jon does his best to maintain his external composure and respond appropriately. He should say something. There’s no way he can say anything.

Maybe if he just doesn’t mention it, if he ignores any potential attempts at making a move as if they’re going over his head the way flirting does most of the time anyway, then it just won’t happen and he won’t have to deal with it—the situation or the conversation, either one. Jon knows avoidance isn’t really the _best_ coping strategy, especially when it comes to a relationship rather than, say, spiders or cursed books, but it’s comfortably familiar. If it’s important to Tim, he can be the one to bring it up. If not, Jon doesn’t need to be the one to make a big deal out of it. Jon tries to convince himself this is a good plan.

The kitchen in Tim’s flat is tiny. It’s hard to avoid brushing up against each other as they boil pasta and make the sauce, but Jon presses himself as close to the corner as he can while cutting the vegetables for salad, trying to keep his back to the wall. Tim’s normally pretty good about broadcasting his movements, so Jon doesn’t _think_ he’d try a surprise hug from behind, but it’s enough of a classic ‘domestic moments’ cliche that he doesn’t want to take any chances. Jon doesn’t know if he’s more likely to stab Tim or himself if startled, but neither is exactly ideal, and he’s relieved when he finishes with the salad and can turn back to face Tim.

Tim’s talking and joking and laughing like always, gesturing widely with the spoon in a way that sends droplets of Alfredo sauce splattering across the backsplash. Jon hopes he’s responding appropriately, smiling widely enough, laughing at the right moments, that the words he can hear pouring from his own mouth make sense.

Then Tim is serving up two plates of pasta in thick white sauce and pulling up his show on Netflix, and Jon is slowly following him to the sofa, holding his plate carefully in both hands to hide how much he’s shaking.

They’re sitting on the couch. The pasta is good, the sauce rich and creamy. Jon feels guilty for not being able to eat more. He tries to focus on the television. The show is interesting—not something Jon would have picked out himself, but he can see the appeal. Unfortunately there are also a fair number of sexual references in it, which makes him uncomfortable, and which really isn’t helping convince him that this is anything other than what he really hopes it isn’t. He should say something, make sure there aren’t any false expectations. That wouldn’t be fair to Tim. He chokes down another bite of pasta in silence. His stomach feels so twisted with nerves that he’s not sure he’s still capable of digestion, and in response to that thought, his brain supplies a memory from Year 6 when he’d been invited over to a friend’s house for dinner. He’d been so excited at the rare invitation that he’d eaten too much and thrown up all over the hallway carpet on the way to the bathroom. He hadn’t been invited back after that. They’d had pasta that night too. Jon sets his plate down on the coffee table and folds his hands in his lap, chewing his lip. He doesn’t want a repeat of that experience. Although perhaps it would help ruin the mood if things start getting hot and heavy.

Jon knows he’s sitting too stiffly, straight backed as if he was at a job interview. He should be relaxing more, leaning back into the couch, but he can’t. 

He should be enjoying this. He _wants_ to enjoy this. So far, all the activities they’ve done have been things Jon enjoys, so he _should_ be enjoying them. It’s stupid and ridiculous to deny himself enjoyment of the current experience because he’s worried about something in the future. Especially when it might not even happen. Unfortunately, telling himself it’s pointless to worry has never been effective in getting Jon to stop worrying. He takes a deep breath and tries to relax his shoulders at least. He doesn’t want Tim to feel like a bad host.

Tim casually settles his arm on the back of the couch. Then he just as casually reaches down to lay it across Jon’s shoulders.

Jon freezes, his body going completely stiff, and his mind blanks as his racing thoughts are replaced by grey buzzing panic. “I’m not going to have sex with you!” He blurts out.

“Oookay,” Tim says slowly, his arm staying on Jon’s shoulders. His face is creased slightly with confusion or worry—Jon can’t quite tell. “I wasn’t going to ask you to.”

“Oh.” Jon says. “That’s...uh,” he clears his throat. “That’s good.” After a moment, he adds, “I don’t mean just tonight, I mean ever. I’m not ever going to have sex with you. Or, or, with anyone,” he says quickly, because he doesn’t want to make it sound like this is a problem with _Tim_ , like he isn’t attracted to Tim specifically, when it’s just the way Jon is in general. Jon’s staring at the television with such unblinking intensity his head aches and his eyes feel dry and itchy, but he’s too nervous to look anywhere else. He doesn’t dare look over at Tim. 

“Jon, it’s all right,” Tim says patiently, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Are you sure? You’re okay with that?” Jon twists his hands in his lap. “I mean, not just tonight, but ever?” He repeats.

“Jon,” Tim says gently, “It’s _fine_. I promise. I mean, If you decide you _do_ want to have sex at some point, of course I’ll be up for it, but I’m not going to push you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Is this all right?” He adds, shifting his arm where it lays across Jon’s shoulders. 

“Oh, yes!” Jon says quickly. “This much is fine.” He leans in closer, pressing up against Tim’s side, suddenly unable to stand the thought that Tim might pull away. “And of course, holding hands like we did earlier.” 

“How about kissing?” Tim asks. 

Jon stiffens again and bites his lip. A burst of laughter from onscreen fills the silence as he considers his answer, and he startles slightly at the sound, wondering what joke he’s just missed. Jon knows Tim’s promised he doesn’t mind not having sex, but he feels bad not offering him _something_. He’d tried, with Georgie, to make some compromises, but then again he’s not sure that had done either of them any favors in the end. And if they are having this conversation after all, he doesn’t want to lie. “I’d prefer not to,” he says finally. “At least, not on the lips. I’m sorry. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

“That’s not something you should apologize for,” Tim says, and for a moment he sounds almost angry. Then he continues, his voice gentle, “Jon, I knew you were asexual before we started dating. I wouldn’t have asked you out if it bothered me.”

“You...knew,” Jon says slowly. He’s ostensibly still watching the show, in the sense that the it’s still playing and his face is still turned towards it, but the more he tries to focus on it, the more the pictures seem to blur into bright incomprehensible shapes and the words wash over him in a wave of meaningless sound. Jon gives up and closes his eyes, letting it wash over him. 

“Yeah, I mean, I kind of guessed from the way you’d react to some of the ‘steamier’ statements, and how completely oblivious you were to any attempts at flirting,” Tim says, “but then you started wearing your Ace Ring to work, which was a pretty big giveaway.” Tim nods towards the plain black ring on the middle finger of Jon’s right hand.

Jon blinks, staring at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. He had forgotten about the ring. Well, no, not _forgotten_ exactly, he’s been twisting it around and around his finger all evening in the way he often does when he’s nervous, so he was certainly aware of it on a physical level at least. He’d just forgotten that it meant something, or rather that it might mean something to someone other than him. The ring is still relatively new for Jon. He’d only found out about the concept of an Ace Ring about a year ago, coming across it randomly during research for a statement, although apparently the idea has been around since 2005. It had taken months after that to work up the courage to actually get one, to convince himself it wouldn’t be too performative and attention-seeking, that likely no one would notice or really care. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone else wearing one, although it’s probably more that he just never made special note of it. London is a large city, after all, Jon and the person in the statement are hardly likely to be the only asexual people living there, or the only ones wearing rings. Still, it’s a new concept to him, and he doesn’t wear the ring for recognition, with the expectation that anyone else will understand the significance of it. He wears it more for himself, as a reminder that this isn’t just some kind of quirk or personal failing he needs to work through or get over already. Just like the bi-flag sticker on his laptop and the patch on his jacket remind him that he isn’t just confused, isn’t just in the closet about being gay or just a straight guy trying to be special, he wears the ring to remind himself that this part of himself also has a name, an identity, maybe even a community if he’s willing to reach out for it. The idea that someone else would notice and understand what it meant, especially someone close to him, hadn’t really occurred to him.

“Danny was Ace,” Tim says softly, breaking the silence that has stretched between them. “He used to wear a ring like that, after he came out.” 

Jon is torn between guilt at taking so long to process what Tim said that he felt the need to elaborate and gratitude that Tim has chosen to share this with him. He knows Tim doesn’t often talk about his late younger brother. “Thank you for sharing with me,” Jon says softly.

“Yeah,” Tim coughs, “Anyway, let’s just say when I saw yours I figured it wasn’t just some fashion statement like a, a mood ring or something.”

“It’s my ‘mood for sex’ ring,” Jon says, because it seems like the kind of thing that might make Tim laugh and bring some levity back to the mood.

He is indeed rewarded with a small snort of laughter from Tim. “What, just ‘always no’?” 

Jon nods, his head bumping gently against Tim’s chest as he leans into Tim’s embrace, feeling relaxed for the first time this evening. “Well, that’s how it is for me, at least,” he amends. “I know there are Aces who are more amenable to it either in general or under certain circumstances, but for me...” Jon wrinkles his nose, shivering at the thought. 

“Not really your thing?” Tim asks. 

“I don’t have any desire to have anyone else place any of their body parts—or any _objects _—into any of my orifices, nor to place any of my body parts into anyone else’s orifices.” Jon clarifies. “I also don’t appreciate touching or being touched in any of the erogenous zones.”__

____

____

“Oh, no,” Tim says with exaggerated dismay, “ _No_ orifices? So now you’re telling me we can’t even experience the inherent romance of picking each other’s noses?”

Jon frowns. “Absolutely not. Don’t even _joke_ about that.”

“Right, right, sorry. Seriously though, it’s fine.”

Jon nestles closer, enjoying the cuddling now he knows that Tim won’t expect it to lead to something else. “Thank you,” he says, although the phrase seems totally inadequate. “For all of this, for listening and accepting.”

Tim shakes his head. “No, thank you,” he says, “for trusting me and being honest.”

“You were right,” Jon says after a moment, into the silence that’s fallen between them, finally properly registering the presence of the television, “This is a decent show.”


End file.
